Stockholm Syndrome
by the-lovely-anomaly
Summary: "He helped me." What if there was another reason why Amanda became John's apprentice - a reason not even she understands? A black comedy about Jigsaw and his legacy. DISCONTINUED.


**I'm sure I'll be screamed at by avid **_**Saw**_** fans for making their beloved characters "OOC," but quite frankly, I'm alright with that. This fic is a dark comedy, not meant to be taken seriously, and a product of my hatred for Amanda Young. No offense to any Amanda lovers out there, but I simply cannot stand her. I don't buy for one second that she became apprenticed to John because he "helped" her, or because she found a father figure in him; if anything, I think she grew attached to him because he put her in a near-death situation and she, being the self-loathing masochist that she is, grew to revere him for that. That's my interpretation, anyway. **

**Anyone is free to read and review, but I must give fair warning: if you're looking for edge-of-your-seat suspense, gore, or serious romance, you'll want to avoid this fic; however, if you're into dark humor and sardonic jokes about human misery, boy is this the fic for you. Enjoy! :P**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Saw**_**. **

She drops to her knees right in front of me, her fragile bones making a dull thud as they collide with the floor. Tears and mascara are streaking her face like one-way road maps but my eyes go straight to the item she's cradling in her arms—the reverse bear trap. The device she claims saved her life. "Please," she sputters, "I have to feel it again."

Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.

This is what happens when you hate yourself: you love pain. You need it, want it, seek it, beg for it. It becomes like a drug—part of your daily existence.

She wants me to put the trap on her again. Wants to feel the helplessness she felt when I tested her. But I won't do it, and that pisses her off. Why I chose her as my successor, I'll never know. I love her, make no mistake about that, but that doesn't change the fact that she's a dumb bitch. Hoffman's not much better but at least he's got some self-respect. At least he doesn't fall to his knees blubbering and screaming like a five-year-old with a temper tantrum whenever he's having a bad day, begging me to play a mock game on him.

I hate masochists. You wouldn't think so by looking at me, but I do. I fucking hate them. There's no sense in loving pain. Inflicting it is one thing, but loving it is something completely different. If people love pain they can't be stopped; they reach this level of crazy brave that makes them capable of anything. I despise people like that, because I envy them. I wish I was that brave. I act like I am; I have a very calming demeanor that makes me look like I'm not bothered by anything. But it's all a façade. I _am_ bothered. This tumor in my head scares the shit out of me. And I hate being scared. Maybe if I loved pain—maybe if I was a pitiful, self-mutilating masochist—I wouldn't be.

Of course, with my luck, the only survivor of my games just had to be the very type of person I can't stand. She's the worst masochist imaginable, and I hate her for it. I hate her as much as I love her.

And it's not just the masochism I hate, it's pretty much everything else. The sex is great, I'll give her that, but that's about all she's good for. That and smart-ass remarks I occasionally find amusing.

I gaze down at her, my face stoic, and simply say, "No."

She bowls over and sobs harder, clutching the bear trap against her chest as though her life depends on it. In her mind, it does.

"Get up," I tell her.

She doesn't.

"Get up," I say again.

"Fuck you!" she yells, though slowly she looks up and locks gazes with me. Her face is a mess—her cheeks stained with mascara blotches, her eyes puffy and red. "If you don't do it, I'll just cut myself again!" she threatens. "Is that what you want? _Is_ that what you want?"

I sigh. Of course she had to go there. Her and her cutting. The ironic thing is that she thinks she's impressing me, showing love for my work, when really all she's doing is driving me nuts. She's not even the one who created that damn trap and she loves it more than I do. More than I ever could, I suppose.

I kneel down, brushing my fingers along the length of her hair to give her a sense of security. "Amanda, listen to me," I say. "This needs to stop. You're no use to me dead." Actually, you're just as useful to me dead as you are alive, I want to tell her, but at this point I'll say anything to shut you up.

"I feel so empty," she mutters. "I miss the adrenaline. The fear. Fear is real."

"You're real," I say, "with or without fear." And I wish to God you weren't. I wish you were just a figment of my imagination.

I reach out, grip the reverse bear trap, and gradually pry it from her arms. She tugs on it at first, but then subsides and lets it go. "I just don't know who I am if I'm not in pain. It's either pain or the drugs. I don't know which one to choose."

Whichever one puts an end to your whining. "Neither. Life is a gift. Treat it like such." Bullshit. I'm totally bullshitting this. But she believes it. She eats it up.

"I love you, John," she says, bending over to kiss my cheek.

"I love you too, Amanda," I return.

And I do. I really do. But my god, do I hate her. I want her with me, yet at the same time I want her out of my sight; I want to touch her, hold her…yet I also want to beat her face in. Is this what it feels like to be a father? If so than I would have made a lousy one.

No. No, I wouldn't have.

This is not fatherhood; this is strictly business. She is my assistant. Nothing more. And the only reason why she is my assistant is because, as of yet, she is the only one to walk out of one of my traps alive.

Hoffman, he's another story. This is all revenge to him; this is his way of saying "fuck you" to the world. Which I admire. But he will not go untested, oh no. He will have his day of reckoning soon enough. He may grow to resent me for it, but in all truthfulness, I have come to terms with that. Hoffman's not a masochist. He's like me, he's afraid. I like him for that. That's one thing—perhaps the only thing—that he has over Amanda in my eyes.

Gradually, as though in slow motion, Amanda rises to her feet and wipes her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says. She leans in close, placing her head against my shoulder. "Forgive me?"

"You know I will," I reply.

"I know you don't want to hurt me."

"Of course you know that. You're a smart girl." You're a stupid cunt and you don't know a single blasted thing.

She nuzzles my shoulder, burying the side of her face into my jacket. "I want to make it up to you."

A smile tugs at my lips. "You know how to do that, sweetheart."

Gently she pulls away, smiling, and then takes my hand and leads me over to where my bed—complete with tubes, remote adjuster, and bedside monitor—is situated.

I do love Amanda. I really do.

Especially when she's sucking my wrinkly, garden spout of a cock. I love her so much when she does that I could die for her. And mind you, I do believe I would. Fuck, why not? I'm dying anyway.

But there are times, like during her self-hating episodes, when I don't love her. When I think back to that day when I put her in the reverse bear trap and wish she'd panicked a little more, hadn't found the key, hadn't unlocked the device in time…and had had her big, whiny, dick-sucking mouth ripped open.


End file.
